


Rest in the Bed of My Bones

by unlockedlips



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unlockedlips/pseuds/unlockedlips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel falls, he has a hard time adjusting to human life. There's so much to do, so much to remember. Instead of simply existing, now he has to make a conscious effort in order to stay alive. Eat and drink and sleep. And that's where his problem lies.</p>
<p>No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to fall asleep.</p>
<p>Fed up with spending night after night staring at his ceiling, he turns to Dean for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends.
> 
> I'm not sure what this is going to end up becoming. I don't know how many chapters it's going to be, and I don't know how it's going to end. I just couldn't stop thinking about a tired, grumpy Cas looking for a way to fall asleep, and this was what happened.
> 
> Fair warning, this fic is rated M because of the possibility of sexy times in the future.

“Dude, you look like hell.”

Cas peered up from over the rim of his chipped coffee mug to glare at Dean who had just stumbled out of his bed, eyes blurred with a full night’s sleep and hair mussed beyond recognition. Cas didn’t bother responding, taking a sip of his overly sweetened beverage instead of speaking. He knew exactly how he looked right now, thank you very much, and he didn’t take kindly to Dean pointing it out. Blood shot eyes smudged with dark purple circles that screamed against his pale face. It was true. His vessel, no, his body, had seen better days. 

“Well, all righty then. Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” Dean turned his back on Cas with an amused snort to make his own cup of coffee, strong and black like Cas knew he liked it.  
But that was the thing, wasn’t it? It’s not that he had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. It was that he hadn’t woken up at all.

Since falling, his body’s human urges hadn’t come easily to him. He’d gone three days ignoring the gnawing pain in his stomach warning him that it was time to eat something until a dizzy spell caught him off guard and Sam had to catch hold of his bicep to keep him from collapsing to the ground. After a stern talking to from the younger Winchester, he was reminded of the importance of fueling his body just as Dean fueled the Impala to get her to crank every day. He couldn’t depend on the power of his Grace, the only thing his Father had ever bequeathed to him, to keep his heart pounding in his chest or his blood flowing through his veins.

It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t remember when to eat. Humans had lived their entire, brief lives with these subtle bodily hints that told them when it was time to eat, drink, sleep, whatever it was they needed to do to stay alive and well, while Castiel’s existence had spanned a millennia without having felt a parched throat or heard his stomach growl. 

And now, as if eating and drinking on a regular basis wasn’t hard enough to adjust to already, he was faced with the issue of sleeping.

Night after night after night, he laid down in the bed Dean had made up for him when he’d stumbled into the bunker that first night, closed his eyes, and tried in vain to fall asleep. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t no matter how hard he tried. His body was always too hot, too cold. The mattress too lumpy or not firm enough and the pillows under his head not fluffed adequately to prevent him from getting a crick in his neck. He would twist and turn all night long, tangling the sheets and comforter around his legs until his bed resembled a disaster zone from one of those action movies Dean was so fond of. Frustrated and exhausted, he’d spend the rest of the night staring up at the dark ceiling, waiting for the sun to creep up into the twilit sky. 

During these hours as his restless eyes counted the rotations of the ceiling fan overhead, the stillness of the night weighed down on him. There was no getting comfortable with the suffocating silence that pressed in on him as the moon climbed higher. As an angel, he’d be able to hear both Dean’s and Sam’s even breaths and sometimes light snores travelling through the empty halls, permeating the walls of the bunker. He’d be able to hear the chorus of croaking frogs and chirping crickets from outside as well as the passing sounds of rumbling engines as they drove down the dimly lit streets. Now that he was human, that ability had been stripped from him, pulled out of him along with his grace and stuffed into a crystal vial. 

His bedroom was eerily silent, the only sounds echoing off of the four walls the sound of his own breathing. And with this silence, it seemed his thoughts grew louder in his mind, and he was helpless to stop their endless circuits. There was the guilt, always the guilt, spawned from the harm he had caused over the past few years to his brothers and sisters, to the world, to the Winchesters themselves. Images of Dean’s betrayed face after learning he had been working with Crowley, of the countless of siblings he had murdered during his crusade to bring Heaven back to its original glory, the broken, bloody face of Dean as he stared up at Cas, uttered those three unforgettable words, “I need you,” they all made guest appearances at night, kept him awake until the clock on his nightstand told him it was dawn already.  
As if to make matters worse, his emotions were stronger than ever before. Losing his grace might have dimmed his other senses exponentially, but now he felt each emotion with a disturbing clarity that had him gritting his teeth against their ruthless onslaught. The guilt, the loathing, the fear that he’d never own up to his mistakes… It was enough to keep even the most sound sleeper wide awake.

Cas finished the last dregs of his coffee with a noisy slurp and stumbled over to the coffee pot, bare feet shuffling against the linoleum floor. He added spoon after spoonful of sugar into his cup so that there was a small mountain of white granules at the bottom and he could all but feel Dean’s horrified stare penetrating his skull as he poured in the remnants of the pot of coffee he had made earlier that morning. This was his fifth cup of the day, and the caffeine was doing nothing to rid his bones of the aching exhaustion he felt or remove the sluggishness in his muscles. Stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, he then raised the mug and took a large gulp, not even tasting it at this point.

Maybe making another pot would help.

“All right, man. What’s up?” Dean moved to stand beside of Cas, keeping a respectable distance between them as he placed his mug down on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Not that you’re usually Little Miss Sunshine in the mornings or anything, but you look like you haven’t slept in a week.” 

Cas glanced briefly up at Dean, sighing when he realized there was no way he’d be getting out of this kitchen without telling the truth. He hated burdening the Winchesters with his problems. They had done enough for him already, opening their arms, their home, graciously to him even after all of the trouble he had caused them. 

“That’s probably because I haven’t.” He took a sip of the coffee, catching a stray drop that rolled over his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. He could have sworn he saw Dean’s eyes flicker down at the movement, but before he could make sure, Dean was already looking back up at his eyes.

“What do you mean you haven’t?” 

Cas rolled his eyes. “I haven’t slept,” he clarified over another gulp. “I can’t seem to fall asleep, no matter how hard I try. I know the concept of sleeping, I know how it should be done, but I can’t seem to get the hang of it.” What was as simple as closing their eyes and drifting off for some people was one of the hardest challenges Cas was having to face as a human. It was almost laughable except for the fact that if he didn’t get the hang of it soon enough… well, he had seen Sam after his hallucinations of Lucifer had kept him awake for weeks on end.

Dean’s brows furrowed, and Cas had seen that expression on his face directed at Sam enough times to know that he was concerned. “Oh well… uh, have you tried counting sheep?”

Cas scoffed over the rim of his coffee cup. Of course he had. After three nights of tossing and turning, he’d done some research to see if anything could aid him. He’d tried counting sheep, tried meditating, tried drinking a hot glass of tea before bed. He tried everything short of medication, and that was something he was unwilling to touch. “I’ve tried everything,” he mumbled, casting his eyes down to his bare feet, clenching his toes against the cold floor. There was a moment of silence and then, “How do you fall asleep at night, Dean?”

Dean choked on his coffee, covered his hand with the back of his mouth and played it off by clearing his throat. “Well, I… uh…” The question must have made Dean uncomfortable by the way he was looking anywhere but down at Cas. “I don’t know, man. I’m not the best person to ask about this.” Ever since Hell, Dean was lucky to get four hours asleep before waking up from the nightmares, snippets of shredded bodies and echoes of tortured screams ringing in his mind. Over time, he’d been able to reign in the fear enough to where he no longer woke up with the acrid taste of panic on his tongue. The pain of being under Alistair’s blade once again, or worse, holding that blade in his own hand, had dulled with time and dimmed further with half a bottle of whiskey. Cas knew that. He recognized the fact that Dean wasn’t the most amicable person to be asking about this, but he thought after all that Dean had been through, after all of the countless horrors he had seen, even participated in, he must have some secret that allowed him to rest his head on his pillow and fall asleep. “Why don’t you ask Sam? He’ll probably know what to do.”

Disappointed, Cas merely nodded into his mug. Sam would no doubt tell him the same things he had read off of the computer. He’d prattle on about clearing his mind, willing himself to relax, and letting his body do the rest. If it were as simple as that, Cas would be asleep, nestled in his soft sheets, right at this very moment. With a sigh, he drained the remnants of his coffee with a gulp large enough to burn his stomach and began the process of brewing a fresh pot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why sleep when you can read?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely and totally happy with this chapter, but it needed to be written all the same. I promise future chapters will be better.

Cas didn’t ask Sam for the underlying reasons as to why he wasn’t sleeping, and he didn’t ask Sam for help when it came to the methodology of falling asleep. 

No, Cas bit his tongue instead and went about the rest of the day to the best of his ability. For the better part of the day, Sam scoured the internet for any easy hunts that might be nearby, and Dean went out for a grocery run which left Cas to his own devices .He spent the majority of his time in the den, feet tucked up underneath him as he lounged on the loveseat with a book cracked open in his hands, pair of reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. 

The books the Men of Letters had to offer were all informational texts on various creatures not even the Winchesters had known about, but Castiel did. He knew each one, knew each of their characteristics, their weaknesses, their tragic flaws which meant he had no interest in slaving over the many volumes of text lining the walls of the library. So he had begged Sam to let him read some of his personal books. He poured over each one, devoured them like a starving man, and only put them down when it was absolutely necessary (he even read them in the Impala despite the fact that it made him nauseous). But with this new found love of all things fiction, he hadn’t paced himself and the small pile of books Sam had lent to him disappeared. After sulking for a few days, bored out of his mind without losing himself to a new world filled with rounded characters, Dean had finally pulled him aside to his bedroom, thrust four well-worn novels into his hands with a gruff demand of, “Don’t bend the spines. And don’t tell Sam,” and pushed him out the door. Turns out Dean had his own private stash of Vonnegut books.

Cas smiled down at the shabby copy of Slaughterhouse-Five that was cradled gently in his hands. Truth be told, he liked these books far more than the classics Sam seemed so fond of, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the differing writing styles or the fact that each book Dean had given him held a piece of himself stashed away between the age-darkened pages. Every time he ruffled through them, he caught the distinct whiff of oil and gunpowder. Certain lines were underlined, others were circled multiple times depending on their importance, like the quote, “And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.” Every now and again, he’d see notes penciled into the margins, an extension of Dean’s thoughts as he read, and it all added to the experience.

Later that evening, Dean came out of the kitchen, proudly sporting the polka-dotted apron Sam had gotten for him as a joke, and announced it was time for dinner, but Cas politely declined. The copious amounts of coffee he had drank earlier that morning had made his stomach churn at the thought of food. Dean seemed worried if his furrowed brow said anything, but he dropped the subject, and Cas continued reading.

“Hey, Cas, we’re heading off to bed,” Sam’s voice startled him from the doorway as he leaned a hip on the wooden frame some time later.

Cas nodded his head, holding his place in the book with his index finger. “Good night, Sam, and tell Dean good night for me too. I think I’m going to stay up a little longer.”

Sam frowned, a gentle downward twist of his lips. “About that… Dean said you were having trouble sleeping, and I wanted to let you know that if there’s any way I can he—“

Cas held up a hand to silence him. “It’s fine, Sam, don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight. I just want to read a few more chapters before I go to bed.”

Sam didn’t look convinced, but he nodded his head once. “Well, in that case, I hope you sleep well. Dean… he’d kill me if he knew I was telling you this, but he seemed sort of worried earlier and, just try and get some rest, okay?” 

Cas didn’t try. What was the point? He was tired of staying up, night after night, twisting and turning in his bed sheets, getting more frustrated by the second as his body tired out even more. He didn’t want to go back to his room, didn’t want to confine himself to his mattress because he knew it was a lost cause. So he stayed up. He read his book and tired not to think about how the words were beginning to blur along the pages. His hands were shaking, and he kept yawning, long stretches of the mouth that made his jaw pop and groan in protest, but he couldn’t sleep.

When his eyes became so tired and dry that they couldn’t focus on the words right in front of his nose, he pushed himself off of the couch, went to the kitchen, and made some coffee. He was beginning to understand why this drink was such a staple in the Winchester diet. It was life in a chipped mug. He carried his cup of coffee, full to the brim, carefully back into the den, and if his feet may have stumbled and the coffee may have spilled a bit on the floor, well, he was too tired to care.

He drank his first cup hurriedly and he could feel it sloshing hotly inside of his stomach, making him queasy, but alongside it, he could feel the rush of caffeine in his veins, perking him up, making it easier to pick up his book and continue on with his reading. And when his body had used up all the caffeine a single cup had to offer, he went up and fixed himself a new one before returning to his permanent spot in the den.

“Cas?” 

He jumped, book slipping out of his jittery fingertips as he looked up with wide, frightened eyes to see Dean standing in the doorway, eyes squinting against the brightness of the light in the room. “Dean, you startled me,” he said breathlessly, hand going to his chest to ease his rapid heartbeat. “What are you doing up?”

Dean’s answer was a noncommittal shrug as he shuffled into the room and collapsed onto the cushion of the loveseat next to Cas. He didn’t need to say anything. Cas knew by the defeated slump of his shoulders and the lines on his forehead that he must have had a nightmare.

“What about you? Still can’t sleep?” Dean asked through his dry throat.

Cas fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat, sighing and closing the book to place on the arm of the loveseat. “I never went to bed. I didn’t see a point in wasting another night when I could be doing something productive.”

“Dammit, Cas, you need to get some sleep.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that, and if it were that simple, I would,” he snapped. “But it’s not, and for the time being, I’m perfectly content staying up and drinking coffee.”

Dean snorted, an amused gleam in his eye. “If you drink too much of that stuff, it’ll stunt your growth.”

“Dean, my body is in its late thirties, I’ve finished growing. If you’re going to sit here and pester me about how much I need to get sleep or how I need to stop drinking so much coffee, I’m just going to go to bed.” He moved to get up, not in the mood to deal with Dean’s own brand of humor, but a hand curled tightly around his bicep made him pause.

“No, don’t go. It was just a joke. And I… don’t really want to be alone right now,” Dean breathed out in a rush. “Look… I’m sorry… I just, I’m worried, man. I remember what happened to Sam when Lucifer kept him up for weeks on end. I don’t want to see the same happen to you.” 

Cas froze and looked at Dean whose gaze was firmly fixed on his hand on Castiel’s arm. His fingers flexed, squeezed tighter before he let go, and Dean cleared his throat, averting his eyes. “Besides, that stuff really isn’t good for you if you drink it in large doses. Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t overdose on caffeine.”

Relaxing back into the couch, Cas flashed Dean a tired smile. “Fine, I’ll stay, but only if you promise not to talk. I’d like to finish this book before the night’s over.”

Dean held up two fingers and grinned. “Scout’s honor.”

Castiel didn’t finish the book that night. It must have been the exhaustion weighing heavily on his chest or the fact that Dean refused to let him get another cup of coffee. It most definitely had nothing to do with Dean’s warmth soothing his tense muscles or the fact that when Cas was too tired to keep his head up, Dean’s shoulder made for an excellent pillow.

No matter the cause, Castiel ended up falling asleep for the first time in days.


End file.
